


283 - High School Road Trip

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Teenage Van, not entirely romantic but not completely platonic either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 14:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts "something that’s got to do with traveling with Van like with sightseeing n stuff that I don’t think he would do on his own. Just like doing tourist - y shit.“ from goldandblueberries  and "going across the country to sneak into a concert with Van and co. to see your fav band but running into a couple of setbacks along the way? … set before Catfish get famous” from circavogue and “van and the reader were in a band together in high school?” and “Amy Winehouse? A story positioned around like meeting because of her” and “reader’s  always had long hair but then for some reason she cuts it short and then she’s worried Van won’t like it? And then Van’s all cute about it” and a fic based on this post for placidusMini requests for Van singing And I Love Her to Reader, and use of the song Numpty by Paolo Nutini.





	283 - High School Road Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I know this is a fuck load of requests to have together, but lots of them are one moment based ideas rather than whole stories. I think they all go together as well. It’s better to have one longer story that fits a whole lot of your requests in, rather than two or three repetitive fics that feel watery. Also, we’re just going to pretend that Numpty was released much earlier than it was. Fanfic time laws.

In 2007, Amy Winehouse released Back to Black as a single. To say it revolutionised your world was an understatement. At home, music was played but it wasn’t studied and loved and worshipped. There were other kids in your class that new the entire history of rock and roll. There were ones that had bands, or at least, had dreams of having bands. But you were deprived of that. Then, Back to Black.

You’d never been so hurt by a song. There was something so heavy about it. Reading the lyrics again and again, you couldn’t figure it out. Only fifteen, it wasn’t like you could really relate to it. Nonetheless, you spent your days listening to Amy’s entire back catalogue and falling completely and utterly in love. It changed you, and it was a change visible to the people around you.

Van had known you for a couple of years. Y/N - the girl with the long hair that seemed to be as much of a walking disaster as him. He’d watched as you were pulled from art class to be yelled at by teacher 1, who discovered you’d used her in an excuse to teacher 2 for missing homework. Van’s locker was next to yours, and he had tried not to gag as you pulled a mouldy banana from somewhere in it. He liked your mess. And, he thought you were pretty and unassuming, but he didn’t know that word at the time. It was only when you started your Amy obsession though, that he really started paying attention.

Sitting on the steps of the school library, you had your headphones on and face down in a notebook, drawing out the notes of the music as you heard them. Since starting your musical education, your aptitude for it had become evident. The guitar teacher was stoked to have you join up to the ensemble.

“Hey, Y/N,” Van greeted as he took a seat on a step a few below you. He sat sideways, with his back to the solid stone balustrade.

“Hi,” you replied, pulling your headphones off.

Van reached up with his hand open. “Can I? What are the kids listening to these days?” he asked with a smirk. Chewing your lip a little, you watched him put the headphones over his fluffy hair and listen. He smiled and nodded; suspecting he knew the song, you expected him to give back your headphones and strike up a conversation about Amy. Van McCann had always been unpredictable though. He had been as a baby, as a child, and then as a fifteen-year-old. “We only said goodbye with words- I died a hundred times- You go back to her and I go back to- Blaaaaaaaack,” he sung loudly, not caring if anyone walked by.

Van’s singing made you giggle, or maybe it was his bravado. You watched him listen to the entire song. It should have been an awkward moment, given you were both just babies and both just really meeting for the first time. You were new to him, in this musical form. He was new to you, through your musical lens.

“Thanks,” you laughed as you took your headphones back and held them in your lap.

His mother had taught him how to listen to people. Part of what they were saying went unsaid, she had told Van. On the steps of the library, he saw you fail to put your headphones back on or even just hang them casually around your neck. It was an invitation for conversation. Only too happy to oblige, Van started the first of an infinite amount of talks about music and the world. The first was, of course, about Amy Winehouse.

…

“Made you another,”

“What? Haven’t even listened to the last one yet.”

Van smiled and shrugged. Ever since he learnt of your musical awakening, he’d been making you mixed CDs. Sometimes he’d scribble down a track list on the back of a piece of scrap paper; sometimes he’d leave it a mystery and quiz you on what songs you liked and why.

Moving to sit next to you in the two classes you shared - music and English - Van had taken it upon himself to educate you in rock history. He was a chaotic teacher, but his passion was infectious and in no time and all he was your best friend and soundtrack soulmate. The one thing he couldn’t do though, was teach you much about playing the guitar. Although he’d been playing longer than you, your skills were progressing rapidly and soon enough you were getting ensemble solos. Van wasn’t jealous though. He was your number one fan.

“Ya gonna kill it, Val,” Van reassured before one of your summative assessment solos. You couldn’t remember when he started calling you Val, but it was probably after the time you got drunk with him and his mates for the first time. Each attempt to change the song was thwarted as you listened to Valerie on repeat for as long as you could. “Really love her, don’t ya?” Van rhetorically asked, then laughed gently.

“Yeah, I know, but… I like to make ‘em and I got a lot of free time,” Van replied, dragging you out of your memories of him and back to the present.

You were huddled under a bus shelter, waiting for Van’s dad to pick you both up. It had started to bucket down with rain and neither of you wanted to walk back to his in the brewing storm. Good old Bernie always seemed to save the day.

“Free time?!” you echoed in a high pitched voice. “What about the ten million assignments you haven’t done? Or startin’ that band, huh?”

“Oh, fuck, speakin’ of that. Thinkin’ you might want to audition for us?”

“Us?”

“Yeah. Blakeway’s bass. I’ll sing. We found this drummer that lives right near us. His name’s Bob and he’s a real nice lad. So, you can audition for lead guitar, you know what I mean?” Van explained, watching you put the new mixed CD in your backpack, slinging it over your shoulder when you were done.

“Yeah, but why do I have audition? If Blake’s just automatically in, then why aren’t I?” you asked, confused more than annoyed.

“Dad’s here,” Van announced, stepping out from under the bus shelter. You followed him, jumping into the backseat of the car and greeting Bernie. He gave you a wave but let your conversation with Van continue uninterrupted. “You got a different musical background than us, Val. Different influences and all that. And you got a bit of a different look, with ya long hair and everything,”

“Yeah, 'cause Larry’s red spiderweb hair fits the vibe,”

“Larry isn’t in the band though,”

“What? Why?” you asked, shocked that Van’s best friend wasn’t joining up. Surely he’d be the first recruitment.

“Doesn’t wanna play an instrument. He can be our manager or something,” Van said. Bernie snorted from the driver’s seat. “What?” Van questioned him.

“That boy couldn’t manage a piss up in a brewery,” he laughed.

Van shot you a betrayed look when you sniggered. “See, that’s it right there!” he sulked, pointing at you. “You got no faith so you gotta audition. Prove ya'self.”

That weekend, you helped Larry carry the old couch out of Benji’s parent’s lounge and relocate it to the granny flat out the back. They’d granted permission for it to be home to band practice… as long as all the rubbish was put in the trash after. You then sat on it and watched new kid Bob set up a drumkit. He completed the task with such ease and speed that it lead you to believe he was far more professional than Van and Benji. He’d push them forward. Also, he was a complete sweetie pie.

“Alright, Val. You’re up. What’s your audition song?” Van asked, pulling you up off the couch and taking your place. Larry was next to him, Bob stayed sitting behind his kit, and Benji was perched on an amp.

“Ah, it’s a Paolo Nutini song. He’s a Scottish guy…” you revealed slowly, picking up the acoustic guitar Van had somehow acquired and checking it for tuning.

“You’re not doing Amy Winehouse?” Larry interjected. The others laughed in a sort of 'yeah, we thought that too’ way.

“No… Like I’d even try to replicate magic. Just gonna do this… and ah… resent having to audition at all.”

Although he was making you play for your place, the place in his band was always yours. As you recreated the melody of Numpty, the four boys in the room were transfixed and impressed. You only bothered playing the first verse and chorus, then set the acoustic down and shrugged at them.

…

“It’s the biggest show of 2011. We’ve gotta go. We’ve gotta go and we’ve gotta get in backstage,” Van said in a casual tone that suggested that 'going’ and getting in backstage were simple tasks.

“Bernie won’t let us take his van overnight without him,” Benji reminded Van.

“Nah, nah, I’ll talk 'im into it. He owes me one, see. Got on the piss the other night and knocks on me door at some ungodly hour. Snuck in past Ma. She was asleep on the couch waitin’ up. So he comes in and sleeps with me and pretends he gets home in the morning, all fresh faced after helpin’ his drunk mates get home. Plays the hero. So he owes me one,”

“Right, but even if we get the van and get tickets, which is definitely impossible anyway by the way, and then get there at all, how we gonna get backstage? That’s just mission impossible, man,”

“We’ll sort that when we come to it. It will work, trust us, yeah? I’ve got this all planned out!”

There was no way in hell that Van had it all planned out. Even with a favour from his father and that insane McCann good luck, you suspected it couldn’t go as well as he clearly thought it could. But, if anyone can, Van McCann. Your four years of best friendship had taught you that.

Benji was sitting on the ground, his lanky body still waiting to really grow up. He looked up at Van with clear scepticism, yet was willing to follow his friend anywhere. Across the room, sitting in his safe space behind his drum kit, Bob offered no input into the conversation. He was painfully shy and therefore would go along with whatever the majority decided. If they decided something really stupid though, he’d just sneak off home to play around with his camera or something.

Van was stretched out on the old ratty couch in the granny flat. He was leaning against you (like he always was - you being his personal leaning post and pillow and all) and started to paint a picture for everyone.

“So, we’ll get the van. Stock up on supplies so we don’t have to stop for nothing. Smokes. Lucozade. Jaffa cakes-”

“Larry hates Jaffa cakes,” you interrupted.

“What? No he don’t. I see him eat them all the time,”

“Why’s Larry get to come when he doesn’t even come to practice?” Benji asked.

“What’s he gonna practice? He’s my best mate and our manager. He’s coming,” Van answered. It was clear he was confused at why Larry’s presence would be questioned. “Drive straight from here to Brighton. Take about six hours with a few piss breaks. Then we’re there. Easy! Get in. See Skinner. Crash in the van. Have a little kip. Back on the road. Home sweet home. Then, while we’ve been drivin’, Mike would have listened to our demo and he’s calling his record label and all that. Bam. He gives us a buzz and Bob’s your uncle!”

“I’m what?” Bob asked, a sly smile on his too-sweet face. He’d always been adorable and you’d always loved him, but since his late-teen glow-up he’d really upped the sass level. Bob V.2.

“You really think that we can get tickets to The Streets? They’re gonna sell out in seconds,” you asked Van.

“Val, babe, trust me,”

“Don’t 'babe’ me, McCann. You wouldn’t even have a demo to give your one true love Mike Skinner without me. You can’t play guitar for shit,”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just rhythm. Don’t really count. So, then it’s settled! Road trip!”

…

“What’s in the box?” Benji asked as he threw his bag in the back of the van. He was the last to be picked up and he took the final seat in back. You took middle, with Bob on your other side. Van drove with Larry riding shotgun.

“I don’t know,” Van answered.

“Wait, wait, wait. What if it’s like… drugs or something?”

“Yeah. Me mum’s given us a big box of fuckin’ drugs to take to me nana in Norwich.”

Bob looked at you, suppressing a laugh.

In the end, Van’s parents had let him take the prized van for an overnight trip. But, their kindness was conditional. Instead of driving straight to Brighton, where The Streets were playing the show of all shows, you’d all have to cross the country to Norwich. There, you’d delivery the mystery box to Mary’s folks before continuing on your journey. The curiosity of what was inside was killing the guys, but they knew they couldn’t reseal it if they pulled the tape from the cardboard. Smarter than the guys, you had asked Mary before you left what was inside. You’d not be sharing that information though.

“Alright, so, it will take about five hours to get to Norwich. See Nan, get out. Straight to Brighton… Ah, another three- four hours. Be there around five or six if we stick to the schedule,” Van announced to his band in his best voice of authority.

“Shouldn’t Larry being tellin’ us this… You know, as our manager and all?” Benji prodded in a very purposeful attempt to ruffle the feathers of the boys in front. They were bickering about the CD going into the player though.

Yawning, you rested your head on Bob’s shoulder and closed your eyes. It was only just past nine in the morning and although you were used to be up early, it still seemed too early to be dealing with your laddish friends. “Wake me when we’re near, like, Birmingham,” you mumbled, hoping someone heard you.

…

“CHRIST! WHAT PART OF I NEED TO PISS DID YA NOT GET?!” Benji yelled. His seatbelt was unbuckled and he was frantically bouncing around.

Startled awake, you looked out the window as you passed a Welcome to Birmingham sign. You looked at Bob with a frown.

“Ah… wake up?” he offered.

You shook your head, then turned to the chaos. “Van?” you questioned, reaching over the seat to ruffle his fluffy, fluffy hair.

“Yeah, yeah. Everyone chill out, alright? Here. S'not like we can just stop anywhere and piss,” he said, pulling into an empty lot next to a sad looking park. A small, cement building was off to the side. Before the van even stopped, Benji was out and bolting across the park.

Larry and Bob were out fast too, speed walking to the toilets in an announced race. You and Van casually made your way over. He wrapped an arm around you, your long hair getting tangled in the rubber bands and hair ties around his wrist. It happened so frequently that you hardly noticed anymore.

“Alright, love?”

“Mmhmm. You alright?” you replied, looking up at him.

“Ahh… Got something to tell ya… but you can’t tell the others yet,”

“What have you done?” you asked deadpan.

“Why do ya think I’ve done something?!” he squealed. You just looked at him. He grinned knowingly. “Alright. So… You know how I said I’d get the tickets?”

“Van!” you yelled, stopping to push off of him.

“Shhh! Shh,” he hushed, stepping back close to you and pulling you into a silencing hug. “Shhhhh. I’ll fix it! Don’t tell the others,”

“They’re gonna fucking know when we get there and can’t-”

“I’m going to fix it. I promise. I’ll work it out,” he said quietly. Van was not a good liar, but he got away with a lot because people just didn’t ask questions. Nobody had asked for confirmation that he had, in fact, got tickets to the gig. When he said he’d fix it and it would work out, he wasn’t lying. You weren’t sure if that was because he believed it to be true, or because it was just going to eventuate.

Sighing, you hugged him back.

“I won’t tell if we can make a little detour,” you whispered into him. “In Cambridge-”

“Cambridge ain’t nothing but old buildings and schools!” Van already-protested.

“Honestly, Van. You’re so sheltered. The university has a museum for zoology, like animals and stuff, and one for the history of science. I’ve always wanted to go,”

“Since when do you like science? And history?” he squeaked.

It made you laugh. “Christ. You know I exist outside of like… when we’re hanging out? I’m an actual full person, you know what I mean?”

“Aw, don’t be like that! I know. Ya makin’ me sound like a fuckin’ dick. I’m just sayin'… we’re on a schedule here, Val," 

"A schedule based on going to a show we don’t have tickets for,” you contended.

Van went quiet while he thought. You picked at the white print on his hoodie. The Streets had adorned his chest for a long time. When he heard the banter of the guys emerging from the toilets, Van agreed. “Alright. Just a quick stop, yeah?”

“Yep!” you chirped, then leaned up and kissed his cheek. 

…

Cambridge was beautiful. As you drove through it, you watched Van and Larry in the front seats remain straight-faced and seemingly unimpressed. Bob and Benji were watching the buildings and trees fly by with keen interest. 

“Directions, Y/N?” Van asked.

“Just follow the signs to the university.”

The guys followed you into the building. You could smell the… knowledge. It smelled like antique stores and books and lead pencils. Maybe that was the elitist take on 'knowledge’ but when you saw the stone walls and huge wooden doors, you just felt smarter.

“This is cool, Val,” Larry proclaimed as he and Benji got really into finding the weirdest thing in the Whipple Museum. It made you happy that they ended up liking the place, after a metric fucking tonne of complaining between Birmingham and Cambridge.

“Are these real?” Van asked, visibly squirming.

Walking to him, you looked at the display of horse teeth, still in neat rows like they would be in the mouth. Reading the information provided, knowing they were made of papier mache didn’t make them any less macabre.

“Oh, hey, Van, this set look like your teeth!” Larry happy chimed in, appearing at Van’s side and selecting a mouth with two big front teeth. 

“Get fucked mate! See that picture of evolution of there? You look like the missin’ fuckin’ link, so you ain’t got no room to talk,” Van bit back.

“Stop it, the both of ya. We’re not in a pub. Be respectful!” you hushed them, glancing over at the staff member, watching the guys’ every move like a hawk. Van and Larry both giggled and ohhhhhhh'ed you.

The walk between the Whipple Museum and the Museum of Zoology was short. Benji lead the way, entirely on board the educative pit stop. He couldn’t help it; he was a born Ravenclaw. Bob and Larry straggled along behind the rest of you, taking photos on one of Bob’s many disposable cameras. You and Van walked side by side. His hands were shoved in his pockets and he was walking close to you, a habit that emerged when he felt out of place.

“You wondered about the time?” you asked him, gently knocking into him.

“Nah. It will work out…” he said, looking over at you. He knew you could see his discomfort. “Places like this always freak me out a bit, you know what I mean? Like… school was bad enough. I could never… never do all this.” He motioned vaguely to his environment. “If the band don’t work… This isn't… I just… I guess I don’t know what I’ll do, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do, but I honestly think you’re a bit of a born star. Like, not to inflate ya ego any bigger or anything, but I really don’t think you need to worry,”

“I don’t worry, exactly, but… I don’t know. It’s all good for the rest of ya. I mean, you and Benji are dead fucking smart. Bob has other things he’s into. But… this is all I want. All I’m good at,”

“Aw, come on. That isn’t even true! You’re good at making friends… and rolling joints,”

“Larry taught me that. So, I can be a drug dealer than?” Van laughed.

“I’d buy from you,” you replied.

The University Museum of Zoology was amazing. You liked the Komodo dragon skeleton. Because of the grandeur of it, Van liked the fin whale. Bob could relate to the Malay tapir tagline, 'Great hearing but poor eyesight.’ Larry was overwhelmed when he discovered that sloths used to be as tall as giraffes and weighed more than grizzly bears. Benji couldn’t decide between the stink bird and Darwin’s beetle box. 

Much to your surprise, you were the one that had to drag everyone outside and back to the van. Calling shotgun, you buckled up and started to search through the CDs scattered around your feet for something good.

… 

Everyone in the van was chanting “FOOD! FOOD! FOOD!” over and over, while Van tried to follow the directions written down by his mother. It took longer than necessary to get from the border of Norwich to Van’s grandparents’ house. When he pulled up out the front of a pretty little cottage, he glared at everyone.

“What? We’re fucking hungry, mate,” Larry protested.

“Just, fuckin’ stay here. I won’t be a second." 

You watched through the window as Van collected the box, walked up to the front door and knocked three times. An old lady answered after almost a minute. She invited Van in, but he pointed back to the van. She looked disappointed, which made Van look guilty. He hugged her then returned to the driver’s seat. As he put the key in the ignition and started it up, you reached over and ruffled his hair. He looked in your direction and gave you a small, sad smile. Van might have wanted to be a rockstar, but he was such a soft, sweet boy.

"Alright. McDonalds?” he asked as he turned off his grandparents’ street. Everyone cheered.

After fries and McFlurries, you left Norwich as it approached half past four in the afternoon with Benji and Bob in the front, and you between B1 and B2 in the back.

…

“Y/N? Love, wake up,” Van whispered. You sat up, getting yourself out of Van’s lap. Not even recalling when you fell asleep or how you ended up with your head across Van’s legs, you were disorientated. “Do you think now’s a good time?” he asked you.

“What?” you croaked out, looking around. Nobody was in the van, but the radio was playing. There was an orange glow; the sun was setting outside. “Hey… It’s my song,” you said, listening more closely.

Van listened too. “Oh! Your audition song, yeah?” Surprised that he could accurately identify Numpty after so long, you just looked at him. He smiled softly. “Yeah, I listened to it heaps after you played it…” It seemed like an omission of something beyond play counts. “You know I only made ya audition because I liked watc-ah-listening to you play?”

“Thought you were just assertin’ ya power of everyone,”

“I don’t got any power of you, Val. Don’t even know what that would mean,” Van replied, laughing a little.

“Where are the others? What’s going on?” you asked.

“Um. Larry went over that hill right there to piss,” he responded, pointing out the window. “And the others went down the road to get help,”

“Help?”

“Got a flat. None of us know how to change it but,” he answered. “Think my schedule might be a little bit fucked now.” Unhelpfully, you just laughed. It made Van smile though. “Stop! No, we just need to think. How do we usually get out of these messes?”

“Ah… We don't… We just make a bigger one that kinda cancels the first one out,”

“Like when we got high and accidentally ate some of Mum’s potato bake for that party and when we realised what we did, we just ate it all to destroy the evidence?”

“Oh my God! I fuckin’ forgot about that!” you yelled, then laughed. “Oh my God. Poor Mary. I still feel bad about that. But yeah, that’s a real good example,”

“It was worth it,”

“Yeah. Your mum can cook… Fuck, what about the time we dropped that chocolate mousse on the good carpet?” he asked.

Your memory recalled the day in graphic visuals. You and Van had taken chocolate mousse into the lounge, where new carpet had just been laid. Mary had warned Van sternly about taking his boots off before walking through there. Alas, a tickle fight had broken out. Bowls were accidentally pushed off tables. Carpets were covered in brown muck. The solution, obviously, was to make a slightly bigger mess and blame someone else. “What do you mean the neighbour’s dog got in?” Mary demanded when she got home. In hindsight, it probably would have made more sense to use Little Mary as a scapegoat. Van didn’t have the heart.

When the laughing subsided, you looked around the van for something else to entertain you. There were a couple of old newspapers and magazines on the floor. Bernie was that kind of a dad, always hoarding useless things. Who knows when ya’ll need a stack of newspaper! You picked up a magazine and flipped to the back.

“Bad luck reading old ones,” Van warned when he saw you starting on the horoscope page.

“Mmmm… that would matter if I believed in superstition. But I don’t. What’s your star sign?”

“Um. I don’t know… August. Leo?” Van answered, missing the irony of your statement.

“Leo, Leo, Leo. Alright. Your calm will be put to the test today, Leo. Try not to fall into this trap. You should try to show people that you’re a thoughtful person and your past experiences have given you wisdom,” you read.

“Huh. That’s relevant! What’s yours say?” he asked with growing curiosity. He scooted along the backseat to be closer to you, wrapping an arm around you.

“Uhhh… Okay, here. You should make more of your own decisions. Don’t let others have so much control over your life. That’s you they’re talking about,” you add, glaring at him. “Uh… Try to free yourself from this situation and take charge,”

“Well, you heard it, Y/N. Take charge. What the fuck should we do now?”

On cue, the door opened and Larry climbed into the back. “It’s getting a bit fuckin’ nippy out there! Others not back yet?”

“No, but Van has something he wants to tell you,” you quickly replied before Van could.

“Look, mate, I’ve told you before. I love ya, but I’m just not in love with ya,” Larry joked.

“My heart, man… But, ah… no,” Van started.

“What 'av you done?”

“Why does everyone think I’ve gone and done something?!” Van yelled, frustrated and a little amused. You and Larry just looked at each other. “Fine. Okay. So, before I tell ya, you just got to not freak out. Because I’m gonna make it work.” That McCann promise and charm. It always did go a long, long way.

By the time Bob and Benji got back, riding in the truck of a guy they met at a petrol station, Larry was as sure as Van was that it would all work out. When the tire was changed and the guy was promised some big bucks after the band got famous via their soon-to-be-found connection to The Streets, you were back on the road at six.

Van was nervous. His leg was bouncing on the spot. He wasn’t joining in on the banter. You reached out and took his hands, threading your fingers through his. Immediately, he squeezed.

“Um. Guys?” you said loudly, drawing everyone’s attention to you. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Of course, everybody answered with 'bad.’ “Alright. The bad news is that we do not have tickets to the show,”

“Whaaaaaaaaaaat?” Benji whispered, drawing the word out. Bob and Larry remained quiet, as did Van, who was melting into your side in appreciation.

“I know. But it’s okay. The good news is it doesn’t matter because we’ve got Van and-”

“We’ve got Van who didn’t get tickets and-” Benji went to argue.

“Don’t! Just, just wait. He’s gotten all our gigs for us. He’s kept us going as a band, yeah? All that. When has he ever, like, failed us or whatever?”

“Now?”

“No. Not now. It’s gonna be okay. Just… have faith, yeah?”

The silence in the van was uncomfortable. Bob kept driving, presumably to Brighton, to The Streets. Benji didn’t look over his shoulder at Van. Larry switched between looking at you for guidance and napping. Van stayed close, cuddled into your side.

When you bypassed London and signs began to count down the distance to Brighton, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Bob, can you stop at the next petrol station?”

Parked out the front, the guys all stayed in the van. You went inside and let your body drift. It was weird; there was a disconnect between your actions and your consciousness. Something was driving you, and you let it. You bought scissors and a brush. In the unisex toilet, you stood in front of the mirror and took a breath.

Anyone would agree that you were impulsive at the best of times. That had always been in you, but after meeting Van those years ago, it had gotten a whole lot worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it. He razzed you up and hyped your chaos. So, when you needed to advocate for him, when you needed to prove your trust in him, well… go big or go home, as Van would say.

When you were younger, you’d pile your long locks on top of your head and draw huge wings onto your eyes. You’d be Amy in the mirror. In that petrol station bathroom, you were just you. You cut your hair in the cleanest line you could until it was just a short bob.

Van literally gasped when you returned to them. It made the rest turn around.

“Christ, Val! Please tell me you’re not havin’ a breakdown or something?” Benji questioned, finally acknowledging life in the back seat.

“How’d you get it so straight?” Bob asked.

Larry’s expression suggested he was less impressed. “Looks-”

“No,” you stopped him. “Red spiderweb,”

“Fair play,” he replied, leaning back into his seat.

“When I meet Mike Skinner tonight, I just… I want to be different to how I was before, you know?” you confessed in the best explanation you could. Unsaid was 'look at what I am fucking willing to do to my literal fucking hair to prove how much I trust Van and you all should too.’

“You… loved your hair,” Van finally said. You shrugged in reply. “Remember when Mrs Murphy said you should cut it off to raise money for cancer or whatever and it made you almost cry,”

“I was sixteen. I’m nineteen. That’s an adult. And when I meet Mike-”

“I love you,” he said, all in a rush and a little too loud for the confined space of the van. The others laughed. “And you look amazin’. Suits you,”

“It really does,” Bob added.

“Alright… so… we’re doing this. We’re going?” Benji said, clearly impacted by your act of faith.

“We’re going,” you confirmed.

Everyone looked at Bob, he nodded once, then turned the van on.

When you were back on the road, Van took your hand in his and kissed the back of it. He did that a lot and it always made you roll your eyes. “Thank you,” he said. There was slight hesitation in his words; he wasn’t entirely sure what he was thanking you for.

“You’re gonna make this happen,” you replied. It wasn’t an utterance of faith or a rhetorical question; it was a demand.

Van nodded and grinned confidently.

…

“THERE!” Larry yelled. Almost toppling entirely into the front seat, he was leaning across helping Bob and Benji look for a park. It was a difficult task; the opening act for The Streets were already on. The heavily distorted sound echoed through the streets around the venue.

Everybody questioned why The Streets decided to do a one-off show celebrating their final album, Computers and Blues, in Brighton. They were from Birmingham, so why not there? Or why not somewhere with a huge capacity? Instead, it was a small gig in a city they seemingly had little connection to. You loved it though, and spent hours and hours sitting on Van’s bed coming up with theories as to why they decided to do it. Maybe they wanted to end it how it started - shitty venue in the middle of nowhere. Maybe Mike Skinner loved Brighton - lots of people did. Maybe they had family there. Nobody would ever know. The point was, it was a highly anticipated and hard to get into event.

With the van parked, you walked down roads, following the music. Outside of the venue, people were standing around trying to soak up the vibe. Evidentially you weren’t the only ones without tickets. Leading the group, Van walked around the side of the building. The back doors to the venue lead to a private courtyard. Although the fence wasn’t, the risk of security being firmly planted on the other side of it was very fucking high.

“You’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do,” Benji cautioned slowly.

“Yeah. What’s the worst that can happen?” Van said with a grin on his face. He was alive with the mischief of the moment and in love with the potential in the night. You laughed out loud at his confidence. “Gimme the CDs.” Bob handed over the three badly recorded demos you’d made. Van shoved them down his pants. “Y/N, love of my life. Kiss for good luck?”

The others snorted and rolled their eyes.

“You fuckin’ wish,” you laughed.

“Always worth a go… Alright, give us a boost then. Let’s do this,” Van said, turning towards the fence.

You watched as the guys held their hands out in makeshift steps, allowing Van to throw himself over the fence. The noise coming from the other side grew by a few decibels. For a second you thought he’d gotten away with it. Alas, yelling and commotion.

“So… do we leave him here and bail… or…?” Larry asked.

“Alright, mate! Alright! I’m going!” Van’s voice said from around the corner. He was walking backwards, holding his hands up in defeat as two massive dudes in security staff fluro walked him away.

As Van approached you, he grinned.

“What happened?” Bob asked.

“Well, someone has the demos. Kinda just threw them out before them lads got me. Look at the size of 'em! Reckon they go huntin’ for the big guys?” Van laughed, looking over his shoulder at the security dudes. They were standing on the corner keeping watch of the troublemaker.

“Well… the demos ‘ave got your number on them, so guess all we can do is wait?” Benji said, taking a seat on the curb. Bob sat next to him. Larry followed, then Van, then you. Sitting in a row like baby ducks, you quietly listened to the music playing out.

Nobody was going to say it, least of all you, but there was a sense of failure. Hope was not entirely lost. But it was hard to muster any enthusiasm for the moment.

Two songs later and Van took your hand and kissed the back of it. “You won’t stop lovin’ me if-” he started.

“Oi, oi! You that kid that jumped the fence then? Handin’ out ya mix like ya somebody special?” someone interrupted.

All five of you looked over. Standing on the corner, flanked by security was Mike Skinner. He was there. Really there. He was so pale he almost glowed in the moonlight, and not in a romantic way.

“Holy fucking shit,” Larry said.

Before any of you could even comprehend what to do, Van was up and jogging over to him. He held out his hand to shake Mike’s.

“Yes, mate! That was me. Um. Mate, you’re a fucking legend. I mean… your lyrics…”

“Nah, mate. None of that. What do ya want?” Mike replied, waving a hand and looking behind Van.

“We just wanted to see you play,” you answered, joining Van.

“And give you our demo,” Benji added.

The guys stood around, mostly in awe and a little bit terrified. If another second ticked by, it would get weird and Mike would leave.

“I cut my hair,” you blurted out.

He raised an eyebrow and said, “Alright, love,”

“No, like, just before. At a petrol station. Because I had long hair and loved Amy Winehouse and then I learnt about good music from Van and then I had to cut my hair off so I could meet you and it happened.”

The second. It ticked by. And another. Then, he laughed. He laughed hard. “Amy Winehouse? Used to do a cover of hers,”

“I know,” you replied.

“You had the same shrink as her,” Van added.

“Aren’t you lot a strange bunch. Alright then. I’ll listen to ya demo. S'pose you want tickets in, huh?” Mike said, his smile warm. He was looking a lot more healthy than he used to. You hoped he was happy.

“Yes. Please. I promise them,” Van explained.

“Can’t break the frontman’s promise,” Mike mumbled, digging through his puffy jacket’s pockets. He handed over a handful of tickets. “That’s all I’ve got. Give the spares out to people, and when ya get famous, pay it forward, yeah?”

None of you could thank him enough. Mike didn’t seem to love praise. He was just a human and you loved he was still just that. You all watched him turn and walk away. He stopped on the corner and looked back.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asked, looking at Van with a serious expression.

“Van… Van McCann,”

“Van McCann? Huh. Good name for it.”

And just like that, Mike Skinner was gone. It didn’t matter if he ever listened to the demo. It didn’t matter if he never thought of any of you again. He had been there. He had been kind. He had gifted you all live music and a memory that would be motivation for years to come.

Everybody looked a little lost for a second, then looked to Van. He’d gotten you all this far.

“You… did it…” Benji said.

Van shrugged casually but had a smug expression plastered on his face. “Did you ever doubt me?”

…

You’d never much liked crowds. Somehow, gigs were always exempt. More than that, the feeling of being enclosed by a crowd at a show made you feel safe. There were very few places in the world that made you feel more secure. The guys didn’t baby you just because you were a girl. You weren’t more precious than them, or at least, no more precious than little Larry. They kept you safe, but they kept each other safe.

Van did like to have you up on his shoulders though. He liked the whole 'huge rock concert’ experience, and anything that was cliché, he was into. Rides on shoulders. T-shirts off and spun around heads. Arms around everyone. Singing to strangers. Crowd surfing. All of it. Often, all of it included getting much closer to you than the regular boundaries of friendship would permit.

It was somewhere in Turn the Page. Somewhere near, 'Streets riding high with the beats in the sky,’ you felt Van’s arms close in around you, holding you tight. You wriggled in his embrace, turning to face him. You sung to each other for a second, then you stopped to reach up and push the sweat-soaked hair out of his face. He smiled wide, any shred of self-consciousness about his funny teeth or fluffy hair gone in the happiness of the ultimate moment.

Van leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. You closed the gap and let your lips touched his. As the atmosphere and the chaos and the love and the music permeated the room and seeped deep into your soul, you alternated between singing, laughing, and kissing your very best friend.

…

It seemed like the entire crowd was hesitant to leave the venue. Nobody ran to merch tables, bars, toilets, or exits for first place in the taxi line. Everybody milled around as long as they could, waiting until security came and forcibly moved people along before they thought of where they’d go next. Benji was still on Larry’s shoulders. They looked real strange, like maybe Benji’s feet could touch the ground if he really tried. Bob was taking photos of them on a disposable camera he had in his pocket. He’d totally forgot to use it during the show, being too in the moment. Van had held his hand out to you and you took it, gracefully accepting the invitation to dance. Waltzing around the plastic cup littered dancefloor, you just laughed. It was all you could do after a show like that.

When everyone was finally ushered out, you all wandered back to the van. Inside was quiet and still. All five of you took a moment to breathe. Regroup. Exist.

“Well… fuck,” Larry said.

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“What are we meant to do now?” Benji asked, laughing a little.

“Sleep,” Bob answered, wriggling down into the middle seat place he’d taken in the back. Larry rested his head on Bob’s shoulder; Bob responded by wrapping an arm around him and dragging him a little closer.

On Bob’s other side, Benji sat alert and alive. Van was on his knees, backwards in the driver’s seat. “I’ll tell ya what we do now: we be a better band,” he informed, gripping the headrest tight and shaking it.

“Probably need a proper manager then,” Larry said, eyes closed by smile wide.

“And a new guitarist,” you added. Van and Benji’s heads snapped to face you. “Been thinking about it a bit. I don’t think I really want to be in a band. Kinda just fell into it,”

“But you’re amazing,” Benji argued.

“Oh, I ain’t saying I’m not good enough,” you quickly stated, laughing. “Been talkin’ to this guy from Newcastle. He was in Detroit Social Club. He reckons the songs are good, and he’s good all these good ideas. So…”

“You gave our songs to someone else?” Van asked. He looked hurt, but that was less about the sharing of tracks and more about the leaving of bands.

“You’ll love him, I promise. He’s weird, but… good weird. Just seems like a real good guy. And, he knows so much about music. Like, so, so much.”

Everyone was quiet for a second, then two. Van stayed looking at you, his eyebrows pulled together. You could see he was thinking a million things at once. It made you nervous, so you turned to Benji, who had slumped back into the car seat exhausted.

“He’s even got curly hair like yous,” you said quietly.

Benji grinned. “Well, that’s settled then… Alright, Van. Did you have anything organised for bed, or was your whole 'risk it’ approach inclusive of drivin’ through the night?”

“Nah. Mary met some lady down 'ere through a bed and breakfast thing or something,” Van said, sitting down in his seat and putting his belt on.

“Vague,” Bob mumbled.

“Oh, so you can comment on that but not me leavin’ the band?” you criticised. Bob snickered.

“She’s made us up a room and put the key under the mat,” Van continued, as usual - not dismayed by faithlessness.

Without another word uttered, Van navigated through Brighton with only a few wrong turns. While the others started to doze off, you made yourself sit tall so Van would have someone to talk to, if he wanted. He didn’t seem to want though. So, you flicked through radio stations looking for anything other than midnight trance soundtracks. You caught the exact five last seconds of And I Love Her.

“Noooooo!” you lamented.

“S'on my iPod if you wanted to listen,” Van offered with a gentle shrug.

“Can’t you just sing it for me?” you asked, turning the radio off entirely.

“My voice is shot from the show.” It was an excuse. Every time you’d asked Van to sing, he’d obliged, excited for the attention. It didn’t matter if he was sick or tired or anything else. He’d do it.

“Pleaseeeeeee?” you begged.

Van looked over at you briefly, before returning his vision to the road. He was at least 80% sure he knew where he was going. You watched as his eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, where Van checked on the three sleeping beauties. He sighed. “Alright…”

Kicking your shoes off and putting your feet on the dash, you watched Van tap his hand against his thigh, finding the beat of the song.

“I give her all my love… That’s all I do… And if you saw my love, you’d love her too… I love her…” he sang.

“Me, you love me,” you corrected.

“Val gives me everything… And tenderly… The kiss my lover brings… She brings to me… Oh, I love ya,”

“Awwwwwww,” you cooed, reaching out and poking his cheek.

“A love like ours… Could never die… As long as I… uh, have you as my guitarist?” His last time was not sung but said deadpan. “Bright are the stars that shine… Dark is the sky…. I know this love of mine… Will never die… And I love her…”

“Do the guitar,”

“Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun.”

Your laughter and applause woke the others.

“We there?” Larry croaked, sitting up and trying to look out the window. The cold air outside and warm air inside had collided, creating foggy windows that became big Etch A Sketches for everyone to play with.

“Yeah, mate. I reckon. This look right?”

Wiping the fog away, you looked out at a cute grouping of buildings that definitely fit the profile of 'bed and breakfast.’ As soon as the van was parked, the guys all jumped out. You went to move too, but Van took hold of your arm.

“Can I ask ya something real quick?” Slowly, you nodded. “Room seven, guys. Key under the mat,” Van told the guys as they closed the doors and headed to the room. Both you and Van watched them disappear inside. The room lit up, the curtain providing limited privacy. Their silhouettes told you they were stripping down and fighting over who got the shower first. You could tell them apart by height and hair.

“What’s up?”

“You’re not, like… leaving us, are ya? You know what I mean?” Van asked.

Immediately, you made a small sound that was kind of an, “Aw,” and kind of just what would be heard if someone squeezed you too tight. You launched yourself across the small space between driver’s seat and shotgun. Van caught you in the awkward hug. His fingers were pressed into you hard and neither of you were gonna let go anytime soon.

“No. No, Van. You’re stuck with me,”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. I’ll be like Larry. Just ride ya coattails,” you laughed.

“But just look prettier while doin’ it,” Van added, kissing the top of your head. You’d always known he was a weird kind of kid, the type of nineteen-year-old to kiss people on the crown of their heads to show affection. Van was simultaneously an old soul and a human puppy dog.

“Much prettier,” you agreed.

“Really think we’re gonna make it?”

“I really think you can do whatever you want. You said you’d get us in, and you made that happen. Even threw in a bonus Mike Skinner meet and greet. You can do it,”

“Yeah,” Van said with a sigh. “I can. We can.”

Nodding, you wriggled a little, indicating you wanted to move. The handbrake was digging into your ribs and without the heater on, the van was growing too cold. Sitting up, you looked at Van. In the glow of the light from one barely-working streetlamp, his skin was light blue. The necklace that always hung proudly around his neck kept catching the light, drawing your attention back to it over and over again.

“Ready?” you whispered, nodding to the bed and breakfast. Van sucked in his bottom lip and looked away from you. His head moved in a slow nod, but it lacked any conviction and meant little if anything. “Hey,” you spoke, then reached out to push his face back to you. In the glassiness of his eyes, you could see your own reflection as it moved to lean across the space once more.


End file.
